


Silver Eyes, Silver Tongue or The Case of the Disastrous Science Experiment

by Ragazza_Guasto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Asexual!Sherlock, Blow Jobs, Case Fic, Dinner, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Original Character(s), POV John Watson, Professor!Kink, Straight!John, or are they?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 07:10:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1143037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ragazza_Guasto/pseuds/Ragazza_Guasto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a drunken night out with friends causes John to ruin one of Sherlock's experiments, John gets it into his head to do one of his own to make up for it. What follows is a study in how to accidentally fool your flatmate into thinking you want him sexually. While on a case in Wales the boys tiptoe around this issue until things come to a head, pun intended, with disastrous, or awesome depending on who you're asking, results. Can they fix what has been broken in time to solve the crime?  Can science explain matters of the heart? Can a pet skull be used as a weapon?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How it started...

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a short, fluffy piece. Like a Pomeranian. It turned into one of those ridiculous, giant dogs that looks like a mop. What the hell?

        It started out as a joke. No, that wasn’t right. Not far back enough. It started out as an argument.  John had come home late, drunk after a night out with Stamford and Murray, and wandered into the kitchen looking to get a glass of water and some Paracetamol to help stave off a hangover.  As per usual when between cases, Sherlock was experimenting at the kitchen table.  He stared intently at a drop of liquid that hung precariously from the end of his pipet, he ignored John, again as usual, as he stumbled around the table towards the sink. John laughed to himself as he recalled Mike’s insistence that he would never make it home in his condition. As if John could forget how to get back to Baker Street. He was still chuckling when it happened. Honestly, it was an accident. John still maintained his opinion on that count.  For reasons outside of his control, the glass of water he carried flung itself from his grasp and landed half in Sherlock’s lap, half on top of whatever had been in the Petri dish on the table.  It had been so quiet that John swore he could hear Mrs. Hudson snoring downstairs. Sherlock didn’t react right away and the anticipation caused the hair on John’s neck to stand on end and his pulse to kick, that same sort of feeling he got when someone pointed a weapon at him. Slowly, so very slowly, Sherlock stood up from the table. John backed up, hands out in front in supplication.

    “John,” Sherlock practically growled. “Do you know how long I’ve been working on this particular experiment?” John looked down at his watch. “Two days, John!” Sherlock snapped before John could hazard a guess.

    “I’m sorry,” he quickly muttered. It came out sounding like a question.

    “Oh, no it’s fine,” Sherlock said sarcastically, his eyebrows rose theatrically high. “Don’t worry about it. What could the world possibly gain from insight into the behavior of _Aspergillus fumigatus_ when John Watson’s got the scoop on how to cure a hangover?”

John didn’t mean to giggle, he really didn’t, but between Latin words at two in the morning and the sudden inexplicable image of Sherlock in a wet t-shirt contest, John couldn’t help himself. The bugger was soaked from collar to knee and his silk shirt clung unseemly to his front. _How much water had been in that glass?_ He wondered.  Sherlock had crowded into his personal space, fuming at John’s lack of remorse for the ruined Mold experiment. If John had been able to string two coherent thoughts together he would have wondered at his sweating palms and sudden leap in blood pressure.

    “You don’t care at all, do you?” He looked John over. John became hyper aware in that moment as his flatmate condescendingly looked him over, that Sherlock’s eyes were silver in the harsh kitchen light, that his pupils were dilated. “No. Not at all. I’m not sure why I’m surprised. What would you know about the sacrifice given in the name of scientific exploration?” He sniffed and flounced away.

    “I am a Doctor,” John announced with a hiccup.

    “A Doctor and a Soldier,” he called out from the bedroom, as if that explained everything.

    “Hey, now see here!” He marched (stumbled) toward Sherlock’s bedroom, intent on giving him a scolding. He came to a screeching halt in the doorway. Sherlock was naked from the waist up, in the process of pulling his trousers down. It took a moment before John's brain woke up and shouted, _Half Naked Sherlock Alert!_ He beat a hasty retreat back to the safe zone of the flat.

    “Insult me will you?” He mumbled. “I’ll show you. I’ll experiment you so fast your head will spin.” He giggled at that. It was too hard to stay mad with that much alcohol still floating through his bloodstream. He thanked the gods that he was a happy drunk, unlike his sister, who became quite angry when inebriated. 

    “When did I insult you?” Sherlock asked as he walked back into the room. He was putting on another Oxford button down despite the fact that it was well past two in the morning. John shook his head at Sherlock’s logic. There was no bedtime, only awake and brief bouts of unwanted unconsciousness.

    “You said…” He forgot.

    “I said you were a Doctor and a Soldier. Both statements are correct and in no way insulting.” He sneered.

    “Aha! That’s what it was. It was the way you said it!”

    “Go to bed, John,” Sherlock brushed past him and headed back to his precious experiment. 

    “I will go to bed, but not because you sent me. Because I want to.”

Sherlock swept the whole of the experiment into the bin and John did feel a bit guilty then. “Yes, John. Very good,” he said in that bored tone that said he couldn’t be bothered anymore. John turned, pain pills long forgotten, and headed for his room. Upon reflection, he still wasn’t sure what emotion prompted the following foolishness, but it was most likely a mixture of pride and need for Sherlock’s approval. He took up a pen and a pad of notebook paper and made a list of experiments he’d be capable of performing once he sobered up. 

The next morning, or possibly early afternoon judging by the blinding light coming from the window, John rolled over and found a notebook smashed into his face. He groaned, pulled the pad from his sweaty visage, and rolled the covers over his head. What the hell had he done last night? Head butted a goat?

    “Get up, John, we’re going out,” Sherlock bellowed from the bottom of the stairs. John had just opened his eyes, how the hell did Sherlock know he was awake? He groaned again at the sound of his flatmates normally pleasant voice as it somehow dug its way into his brain with steel instruments. “John!”

    “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” John called out. “Leave me be! It’s Sunday, the day of rest.”

    “You no more care about keeping the Sabbath Holy than I do, now get up!”

    “Why, God? What did I do to deserve this?” He groaned, despite his flatmate being right, into his pillow. If he didn’t get up Sherlock would come after him and that would surely be a mistake. He rolled out of bed, slowly, and made his way toward the wardrobe. Not caring about his apparel in the least he flung whatever his hand touched onto the bed.  As he dressed, his hand brushed over the notepad again. Curious, he picked it up and skimmed what he had written the night before. It wasn’t unusual  to write himself notes the night of a drunken adventure. He’d always had a fear of blacking out and not remembering his actions.  Lessons harshly learned from his sister’s antics. This note made little sense at first and then with a chuckle he remembered the events of the night before. Sherlock had insulted his intelligence once again and John had gotten it into his head that he would do his own experiment and prove him wrong. He had written a list of six experiments he had felt, in the drunken late night hours, capable of completing.

  1. Cures for Hangovers
  2. What exactly was in Mrs. Hudson’s Herbal Soothers?
  3. Correlation between the lunar cycles and the entries at the clinic
  4. Alcohol level’s effect on shooting accuracy
  5. Who has more fun? Blondes, Brunettes, Gingers?
  6. Do Sherlock’s eyes change color according to his mood?



 

Every descending thing on the list was more ridiculous than the last. John rolled his eyes at how completely absurd it seemed in the light of day.  He took the notepad downstairs with him, intending to show Sherlock, for a laugh if nothing else, but something about the way Sherlock had dismissed him last night still stuck in his mind. He snatched a pen off the floor and carried it with him into the bathroom. As he brushed his teeth he thought over the list.  Curing hangovers was a lost cause.  Not only could it not be done (he wasn’t a wizard) but he would have to continue to drink to establish a base line for the experiment and just the thought of imbibing again made him gag on his toothbrush. He swiped a line through the first one. Mrs. Hudson’s soothers? He wasn’t sure of the legal nature of those and he didn’t want to get her in trouble should they prove to be less than MHRA approved. Another line. He could do research into the lunar cycles and medical administration rates but Sherlock would just laugh until he cried. He spit into the sink, wiped his mouth and crossed another off the list. Alcohol’s effect on accuracy? Again, drinking during a scientific experiment was right out, though he wished he could prove Mike and Bill wrong on that score. He’d hit a target two hundred meters out whilst piss drunk before and neither believed him.  The next to last on the list made him smile to himself. He would come up with that one while drunk. Possibly the most fun he could have during an experiment but his honor would never allow it. Women were human beings, not scientific research to be trotted out for his flatmates amusement. He wasn’t even sure Sherlock would give a fig for John’s sexual research.  Married to the work and all that. He huffed. That left the last, and most ridiculous, on the list. Sherlock’s eyes. _What had prompted that one?_ He wondered.  Of course he had noticed Sherlock’s ever changing eye color, it was hard not to, but it did seem a bit…personal…to make a study of it. He should just scrap the whole project.

    “John!” Sherlock bellowed from the hall. “How much longer is this internal conversation going to take? Shall I get separate cab?”

John scowled at his reflection. “If you kill him, it will take weeks to find another place to live.”

Sherlock popped his head in the door. “Wrong. Mycroft would have you disappeared within the hour.”

    “It would be worth it.”

 That earned him a grin. “Come on. Lestrade promises a worthy case and I’m atrophying without my mold samples.”  His curly head disappeared and he was left alone to catch up. The notepad was forgotten on the bathroom sink.

They arrived at the crime scene in time to meet Lestrade exiting the building. Hands in his pockets, he eyed his feet in quiet contemplation, a look he got during particularly complicated cases in which Sherlock was called in. John assumed he was gathering as much information he could before Sherlock arrived and made a fool of them all. Why bother? It would happen regardless. Sure enough, Sherlock had taken one look at the crime scene and announced the whole thing beneath him. He strode from the building, coat flapping dramatically behind him, without giving a single word on the state of the body or how it had made its way into the too small air duct of the apartment building. John apologized profusely to Greg before chasing after Sherlock.

    “You are unbelievable.”

    “I refuse to be a part of such an obvious ploy. NSY has become dependent upon me to solve even the most basic of crimes and I refuse, John. I refuse!”

    “Alright,” John said in his best ‘Soothing Sherlock’ voice. He looked around to make sure Sherlock wasn’t causing a scene. “You know Lestrade just thought he was being helpful to you, not that he felt he truly needed you. I’m sure he’ll work it out on his own. You did text him just last night, begging for a case.”

    “I never beg.”

    “No, you’re right. You demand.” He scowled again before he remembered how Mrs. Hudson had teased that his face was going to stick that way if he continued to let Sherlock get the best of him.

    “I get the best results that way.”

    “People give you what you want to shut you up. You’re no better than a screeching toddler given a sweet to pipe down.”

    “Do you want to know how he ended up in the wall?”

    “Yes, damn you.” John jammed his hands into his coat pockets.

Sherlock smirked. “Romanian hit.  Rohozeanu clan, by my guess, as they mostly deal in illegal contraband and ‘Mr. Smith’ was holding onto several illegal types of cigars. The smell, John,” Sherlock explained when John looked confused. “He was an informant. A poor one, apparently. The calling card of the Rohozeanu is either violent, obvious death by dismemberment or the usually quieter method of hiding the bodies of the traitors in the walls of their own homes. Lucky for ‘Mr. Smith’ the couple who rented after him desperately wanted the ventilation system fixed before spring.”

    “He couldn’t have been in there for that long.”

    “Four months I’d say,” Sherlock interrupted.

    “Four months!”

    “John,” he drawled in that manner that chastised John for being naïve. “You are a doctor. You know there are ways to preserve the human body.”

   “Four months, though. With no smell?”

    “It’s possible. They most likely used an ancient Egyptian technique, a mixture of formaldehyde and,” he stopped when John put a hand up.

    “I get it.”

Sherlock hummed. “I may call Molly later to get a look at the body. Could prove useful in future cases.”

    “See? It was worth coming out for a look.”

He sniffed that haughty, public school sniff. The one that said ‘Answering is beneath me.’ One day he would be just cross enough to tell Sherlock he looked just like his older brother when he did that. Sherlock waved a hand and, as always, a taxi appeared.

    “I’ll take you to breakfast,” Sherlock told him. And just like that John forgot to be angry.

They did end up at Bart’s after the meal. Sherlock flirted his way to Mr. Smith’s body, via Molly’s gullibility. John found it profoundly hard to watch, not just because he felt sorry for Molly but because something about Sherlock playing at being a genuine, living, breathing male made him uncomfortable. It was like being lied to by a lover about why they smelled like someone else. It was wrong, hurtful. He shouldn’t have to pretend to be interested in Molly if he really wasn’t, he shouldn’t manipulate her that way, he shouldn’t be so damn good at it. It was all wrong. But John kept his mouth shut because he understood that nothing could be gained by breaking the spell. Molly would be hurt, Sherlock would be denied his wants, and John would suffer if Sherlock didn’t get his way. It was all so backwards and…just damn wrong.

    “I’m not an idiot, you know,” Molly whispered.

John looked up at her. She twisted a lock of her ponytail, not quite meeting his eyes.

    “I’m sorry?” John whispered as well.

    “I’m not an idiot,” she repeated. “I know he doesn’t…That he’ll never…”

    “You don’t have to,” he tried to stop her from explaining but she didn’t let him.

    “I saw you, the look on your face when I let him in. You think I’m pathetic.”

    “Molly! Why would you say that? I think no such thing.”

    “It’s okay. I am.” She gave a sad smile. “But I just wanted to let you know, I don’t let him get away with it because I think he actually likes me. I don’t expect anything. It’s just that, well, he is so very hard to say no to.”

    “I agree with you there.” He glanced over at the consulting detective as he prodded at the dead man’s liver.  “But it’s not pathetic. Please don’t be so hard on yourself.” He felt suddenly chastised for thinking Molly so naive.

    “I like to think since he’ll never see me as a potential,” she stopped, her face flushed in embarrassment. “He might eventually see me as a friend.”

    “He does, Molly, he does.”

    “More like a supplier that must be kept happy,” she grudgingly said. John couldn’t argue with that so he just smiled.

    “John,” Sherlock called out. “Come here and tell me if ‘Mr. Smith’ had Retinal Cancer.”

The doctor rolled his eyes for Molly’s benefit and they shared a laugh.

    “It might be the catalyst for his becoming an informant in the first place,” Sherlock explained on the way home after leaving Bart’s. ‘Mr. Smith’ had indeed had Retinal Cancer. Though Oncology wasn’t Dr. Watson’s specialty, Molly and he had both agreed. Sherlock contemplated their finding in the cab, his hands steepled in front of his chin in his classic thoughtful pose.

    “I thought you didn’t care about the case,” John pointed out.

    “I calculate Lestrade will call tomorrow at nine am for clues and I like to have all the facts before I hand them over. In case they miss something. They invariably do,” he explained.

John smiled out the window. They were quiet the rest of the drive home. When they arrived at Baker Street, John headed straight up to the kitchen and toward the refrigerator. There was a pre-packaged salad from Tesco’s that he promised himself he would eat for lunch. He eyeballed it sadly as he set it down. It didn’t look that appealing but needs must, he supposed. He wasn’t getting any younger.

    “Why bother?” Sherlock asked from the doorway. He removed his scarf and coat, flung them on the chair.

    “Why bother what?”

    “With the salad.”

John looked at the plastic container and picked it up. “It’s my lunch.”

    “You’ve started a diet,” he deduced. “Why bother?” He repeated.

    “Who says I’ve started a diet? Perhaps I just felt like a salad.”

Sherlock huffed. “You haven’t eaten a pre-packaged salad in the two years that we’ve been sharing this flat. Why start now? Because you haven’t pulled a woman in the last three weeks and you mistakenly believe it has something to do with your expanding midriff. You’re wrong.”

John stared at Sherlock. He wasn’t sure what to think about that. “Maybe I just want to get healthy.”

    “You are healthy.”

Something about the way he said it, or maybe the extended eye contact, he wasn’t sure, had John’s ears turning red.

    “Just being health conscious is all,” he muttered lamely. He tossed the salad onto the counter and walked away. _To hell with this_ , he thought. He walked to the bathroom and closed the door. Not the classiest exit but necessary. Sometimes Sherlock was just too damn intense.

    “Oh, Jesus,” he whispered when he spotted the notepad he had brought down from his room that morning. Thankfully Sherlock hadn’t come in here before John had had a chance to remove it. How embarrassing would that be? He looked it over again. Sherlock’s eyes…

John looked at himself in the mirror. Somehow, without really realizing he was doing it, he _had_ cataloged Sherlock’s eyes. All day, during every conversation, he had memorized each time they had shifted in shade. Cornflower blue as he studied the crime scene this morning, stark, wintery blue as he raged on the sidewalk outside, something like aquamarine as he blatantly lied to get his way with Molly, blue again as he deduced the body. Silver as he looked at John in the kitchen. Despite not really meaning to, he had sort of started his absurd experiment. _What the hell,_ he thought, _what harm could it do?_ He didn’t need to tell Sherlock about it, it would just be something to do for fun.  That decided he ripped the page from the notebook, crumpled it, and tossed it in the toilet. A second later he tossed the next three pages behind that one as well. Living with Sherlock had taught him a thing or two. He wouldn’t be caught out because his flatmate had read the imprint of the original note. Toilet flushed, he exited the bathroom and walked back to the kitchen only to find Sherlock seated at the table, his face full of microscope. He’d be dead to the world for the next few hours, so John opened his salad and ate as originally planned. Just because Sherlock was right about the diet didn’t mean he should skip the whole idea. Even if he did seem to think John didn’t need it. He chewed slowly, eyes slanted toward Sherlock’s back. _Strange day,_ he thought. Not the strangest by far, but still, memorable.

 

 

    Things went on in the usual way for the next week. The only exception was John’s new found focus on Sherlock. His eyes, his moods, his clothing, which John used in factoring out eye color change. He made little notes at the end of the night which he kept in a small notebook that he held in his pocket at all times.  He was getting pretty good at hiding things from Sherlock, he thought.  The only occurrence that marked him slightly caught was an incident at Bart’s, in which Molly had noticed him staring at Sherlock as he went over the cause of death of a recent victim.  She cocked her head, mimicking the way he himself was watching Sherlock work. He gave her a smile when he noticed her and looked back down at the body. She didn’t mention it but she also didn’t stop watching him until they left. He hoped she didn’t make anything of it. Couldn’t one man glance at another for an extended period of time and it not be a thing? It was for science after all. Well, mostly for John’s own entertainment but it wasn’t like he was staring longingly into his mates eyes, romance heroine style. It was a glance. About every half hour or so. For the last four days…

    “You’re going to hurt yourself thinking that hard,” Sherlock muttered in the back of the cab.

John looked guiltily over at him, noting his cheeky smirk. “Shut it.”

    “It was a spider bite, in case you were wondering. Australia is full of them. He brought it home with him when he returned from his trip.”

John didn’t bother to ask how Sherlock knew he had recently been on a trip to Australia, nor correct him on his assumption about his recent thoughts. He did note however that his eyes were a lovely muted grey this afternoon. He’d mark it down when they returned to the flat.

    “Tell me, John,” Sherlock commanded. “Do you enjoy the work we do?”

John did a double take, not sure if he’d heard correctly. “What’d you mean?”

    “Do you enjoy our work? The cases, the running around, the deductions…my deductions.”

    “Of course I do. Do you really think I’d put up with everything else if I didn’t?”

    “Everything else,” he mouthed to himself.

John frowned. “Where’s this coming from?”

He received a wave and a sulk for his troubles. Sherlock didn’t speak again for another four hours. When he did, John was sitting, curled up on the sofa, watching an old Clark Gable movie that reminded him of time spent at his Grandmum’s.

    “I only ask because you seem preoccupied as of late.”

    “I what?” John asked, distracted.

    “You huff and complain, which is usual, but you also don’t seem as interested in the work. I fear you’re becoming bored of it.”

    “You think _I’m_ getting bored with _you_?” He asked incredulously, his attention fully on Sherlock now. “Generally I think it’s the other way round, mate.”

    “You don’t bore me,” he said.

 John stared. “Sherlock Holmes. I think that was a compliment. Was that a compliment?”

   “Don’t get too excited. You’re allowed only one per year.”

John smiled. “I’ll keep the excitement to a minimum.” Sherlock quirked a tiny half smile, one of his ‘quick, before anyone sees my amusement’ smiles. John liked those. He wished he could see his eyes clearly from across the darkened room.

    “So,” he continued. “Not bored?”

    “No, Sherlock. Definitely not bored.” He turned back to the TV, lest he embarrass himself further with sentiment.

    “Good.”

    “Yes,” John agreed.

    “So, you’re not going out tonight?”

    “Nope.”

A pause. “Good.” They didn’t speak again for the rest of the night, but John changed his clothes, brushed his teeth and went to bed with a smile still glued to his face.

 

The next morning found them at New Scotland Yard earlier than usual. John had assumed it was about the Spider Bite case but in fact Lestrade wanted Sherlock to look over a new case that had been faxed from Cardiff. 

    “Scraps,” Sherlock muttered.

    “What?” Lestrade asked.

    “You’re giving me scraps now. Can’t be bothered to make the journey or is this case actually beyond the scope of your understanding?”

John jumped in when Greg opened his mouth to respond. “He’ll take the case. We both will, gladly.” He snatched the file from Sherlock’s grasp and hustled him out the door. Before John could follow behind Sherlock’s flapping coat tails, Greg stopped him.

    “He texted me at five this morning, begging for an out of town case. Bloody git.”

    “He what? Why would he do that?”

    “You’re asking me? You know better than anyone why he does what he does.”

    “That’s saying a lot because most of the time I haven’t a clue.” He looked up to see Sherlock, who had cornered Sally and was looming, so he threw Greg a quick goodbye and went after his antagonistic charge. On the way home John thought about what Greg had said, the implications. He demanded an out of town case, but downplayed his involvement? Why? To what purpose? Finally when he couldn’t take the suspense anymore, he turned to Sherlock to get some answers, but of course he was cut off before he could do anything but take a breath to speak.

    “Mycroft wants me for an assignment.”

John closed his mouth with a click of his teeth. “Oh.”

    “Yes.”

    “And you think he can’t find you in Cardiff?”

    “The job is time sensitive. If I’m not in town to do his bidding, there’s noting he can do about it.”

    “I guess. I mean, he could have us kidnapped. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

    “Not us.” Sherlock looked over from the sofa. “Just me.”

    “I see,” he said but he didn’t.

    “Top secret.”

    “I’m not to be trusted now, is that it?”

    “Does that bother you?”

John stood. He couldn’t say why but he was bothered. “I’m going to pack. When are we leaving?”

Sherlock tracked his progress as he made his way across the room. “We leave in an hour.”

    “I’ll be ready.”

He tossed three days worth of clothes in his travel case and when he was done he pulled his notepad from his back pocket.

    “Caribbean blue,” he whispered as he made his note. The color, he had noted of late, of Sherlock’s lies.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh...Sherlock is a fibber. He wants to get them out of town but why?


	2. The Case of the Anti-Theist Aviator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock head to Wales to work on a case involving a murdered woman found outside a Mosque. Things start to go awry after they have dinner at a cozy Italian restaurant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's got the Smut? I've got the Smut! This chapter is my pride and joy.

The train was crowded and loud as they sat down at the start of their three hour journey.  John shifted uncomfortably as they sat in silence. He, in a snit of rebelliousness, flipped his notepad out and looked over his notes thus far. Sherlock remained silent, sat across the table from him, through the first hour. It became apparent that he was deep in thought and wouldn’t ask John about his notes anyway so really there was no worry.  So far John had concluded that Sherlock did in fact have an eye color for every mood. His mercurial nature was both unsettling and a comfort. John could always count on Sherlock to move on from a spat just as easily as become irritated after a mostly good day. Having these notes would go a long way towards tracking Sherlock’s moods, possibly guessing them before they struck.

    “Hey. What do you think of Degas?” John asked on a whim. When Sherlock shut down emotionally John had taken to asking stupid questions to garner a response for his experiment. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t.

Without missing a beat Sherlock replied, “ _Son travail était émoussées et l'homme était antisémite. Pourquoi?_ ”

Johns understanding of French was rudimentary, Sherlock knew this, but he was fairly certain he had just said Degas hated Jews. Not the answer he was expecting and it also hadn’t served his purpose because Sherlock hadn’t opened his eyes when he spoke. He remained in his famous ‘I’m thinking’ pose.

    “Never mind. Go over the case again.” He received a huff for his troubles but Sherlock eventually opened his eyes and sat up.

    “Body found. Jane Doe in her early twenties, beaten, raped, stripped and left for dead in an alley in Grangetown.”

    “Greg said Cardiff believes it was Islamic Extremists.”

    “Idiots.”

    “Yes,” he agreed for the sake of the conversation, “so you’re being brought in to prove otherwise.”

    “It would seem so.  If they published their idiotic theories, they’d have the city in an uproar.”

    “Understandable. What gave them that idea to begin with?”

    “Their evidence was flimsy at best but considering the theory was based on the fact that the killer wanted the police to believe it was the work of Islamic Extremists, it’s not that surprising.  That they fell for such a ploy,” a Gallic shrug, “I guess not everyone is a genius.”

    “A point you’ve made on several occasions,” John said dryly with a smile.

    “And you know I wish it to be otherwise but as it continues to be true…” Another shrug.

    “Hmm, no, I don’t think you do wish that.”

    “Yes, I do.”

    “No, you don’t. You quite like being the smartest in the room. If everyone else was on your level, you couldn’t continue your rants of condescension and disdain.”

Sherlock gave him a sideways glare but didn’t argue. John smiled, knowing he was right and Sherlock knew it too. He was in full on grin mode when he caught Sherlock’s lips quirk for a brief second before he turned to look out the window.

    “So, where are we headed to first? Hotel or the PD?”

    “Neither. I want to see the body first. The report says the cause of death was organ failure and I want to confirm myself.  I don’t trust any ME report not done by Molly.”

    “My God in Heaven! A compliment for Molly as well? Too bad she wasn’t here to hear it.”

    “It was nothing. I simply find her reports to be the most accurate…What are you doing?”

John had pulled his mobile from his pocket. “I’m texting Molly.”

Sherlock reached across the table and snatched the phone from his grasp. “You will do no such thing.”

    “Give it back,” John laughed, “I was joking.”

Sherlock eyed him wearily before handing it back. He turned back to the window in a classic sulk.

    “She wouldn’t benefit from my praise, John,” he mumbled.

    “How’s that? She’s certainly not going to shun you for being nice for once.”

    “I continue to benefit from her help because she fears my rejection. If I gave her a steady dose of praise, she would become accustomed to it and would eventually realize she had the upper hand.”

    “So, you admit she has you over a barrel?”

    “She could, if she discovered it.”

    “You’re lucky my sanity rests on the fact that you remain entertained by the body parts she supplies you, or I would inform her of what you just said. Lucifer.”

    “Dramatic. I simply understand various psychological traits and act accordingly.”

    “You manipulate people.”

    “Call it what you will,” he said with a flick of his wrist.

John sighed. “God forbid you ever have children,” he mumbled.

Sherlock turned away from the window in horror. “What in our history together would make you think that would ever happen?”

    “No idea. Honestly, it boggles the mind to imagine the woman who would spawn with you.” _The_ Woman crossed his mind but he immediately dismissed her. She would sooner eat a child than raise one, certainly.

    “Such a creature does not exist and if she did, I’d still have no desire to reproduce with her,” he said with disgust.

    “Actually, you know, there is such a creature.  You have similar interests and you’ve been generous with the praise already,” he teased.

    “John, again, I’m flattered but I don’t believe you have the required parts.”

 John stared at the Consulting Detective as if he had sprouted a second head. “I meant Molly.”

Sherlock blinked. “Oh. Well, yes, I’m sure she would be at the front of the line should the request be made to continue the family name, but as that is Mycroft’s responsibility, I’ll not worry about it, shall I?”

    “Okay, let’s change the subject. I don’t need to think about Mycroft reproducing.”

    “But the thought of my doing it is comical?”

    “No…yes…oh, just shut up.”  

Sherlock turned fully towards him with the entirety of his concentration focused. It was nerve wracking and John fidgeted under the weight of it.

    “Why is it different?” He asked.

    “What?”

    “Why is the thought of my having children funny and Mycroft doing the same disgusting?”

    “You really need to ask?”

    “Yes. Is it the sexual aspect of it or the thought of us as fathers?”

 _Oh God. Why did I open my big mouth?_ “Hell, I don’t know. I guess with Mycroft I can actually picture him going through with it, which is unsettling. With you…I can’t.”

    “Can’t what?”

    “Picture it.”

   “Picture what?”

    “For crying out loud! I don’t know. Any of it!”

He studied John like he would a murder victim and John actually felt a bead of sweat trickle down his neck. He just barely refrained from wiping at it with his hand. When had this conversation gone so far off track? 

    “I would excel just as well at child rearing as I do anything else,” Sherlock said with a glare.

John just barely resisted a chuckle. “Debatable, but like you said, it’s a non-issue.”

    “I could do it.”

    “It wasn’t a challenge, Sherlock. Let it go.” He did chuckle as a thought entered his head. “I doubt you could keep a pet alive for more than a week,” he mumbled.

    “I keep you alive, don’t I? You’re slightly more difficult to care for than a pet.”

John leveled a glare at the man across from him. “ _I_ keep me alive. And you as well. So who’s the pet here?”

They continued to stare off at each other until the ticket taker came by asking to see their stubs. The awkward silence that ensued after left John feeling guilty. He wasn’t sure why but he got the feeling he had hurt Sherlock’s feelings. Was that even possible? A bruised ego was one thing but this felt different than that. Sherlock was hiding it well but John had good instincts for these things.

    “Do you,” John started to ask if he wanted to talk about it but Sherlock cut him off.

    “No.”

    “Alright,” he soothed. “Finish telling me about the case.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically, gave him a sideways glance and then continued to fill him in on the details of the case.  By the time they arrived in Cardiff, John had a head full of facts and theories that were nonsensical and he knew better than to speak up before Sherlock asked for his opinion. They headed straight for the City Morgue, in which Sherlock bullied his way to the autopsy room, and they made it all the way to the victim before a CPD Inspector burst into the room.

    “What in God’s name,” he blustered.

Sherlock, without looking up from the woman lying on the slab, slapped the case file onto the man’s chest. He huffed as he caught it and looked at John for an explanation. 

He held out his hand with a winning smile, ever the go between. “Dr. John  Watson.” Sometimes the title helped smooth the transition. “DI Lestrade sent us to consult on the case,” he explained with a nod toward the victim.

 The Inspector sent a glare toward the Consulting Detective. “Sherlock Holmes, I presume.”

Sherlock hummed but otherwise didn’t respond. John took the file back from Inspector Phelps, his nametape read.

    “You were warned,” John guessed. He sent the Inspector a smile he hoped conveyed his understanding.

    “Yes,” he growled. “Though I can’t say I understand why. This case is open and shut.”

    “Hardly,” Sherlock mumbled. He was two fingers deep in the victim’s mouth. John shook his head.

    “Why don’t you go over your findings with me while my colleague finishes his examination?”

Sherlock snorted, which the Officer glared at but John ignored.

    “Like I said, open and shut. She was found, stripped and left for dead, in the alley behind the Mosque. Official Cause of Death was internal bleeding coupled with organ failure; she had been raped and severally beaten. She was alive when she was found but died on the way to hospital. She’s clearly Middle Eastern.” He waved at the victim to say ‘What else do you want?’ John swallowed his first reaction, which was to scream obscenities in the bastards face.  He relished the coming moment when Sherlock would lay into the Inspector with childlike glee.  Until then he gave another smile, this one possibly a bit condescending.

    “So you have the suspect in custody?” John asked. He caught Sherlock’s smirk as he examined the victim’s nails.

 Inspector Phelps sighed. “You know these religious types. They protect their own. We tried to question the neighborhood but no one would even admit to having known her.”

Sherlock looked up from the ME report. “And you believe they’re lying.”

    “Well, yeah. Obviously.” He chuckled and looked at John as if to receive praise. John didn’t deliver.

    “Tell me, Inspector Phelps,” Sherlock condescended, “did it never occur to you to think maybe the reason the residents of the neighborhood told you they didn’t know her was because they didn’t?”

    “No,” he crossed his arms, “it didn’t. Of course they would say that. They’re protecting the murderer.”

    “You believe they’re the type of people to protect a murderer and not a victim?” Sherlock leveled a stare. John loved this part, almost as much as chasing down criminals.

    “I…they did give off that impression, yes.”

    “Clearly you never even entertained the idea that they truly didn’t know her.”

    “No. Why would I?”

    “Because this woman is from Jordan, as evident by her tan lines and dental history.” Phelps shot a stunned look at John but John just smiled. Sherlock went on unerringly, “She came here on a student visa. If you had bothered to check the missing persons reports,” he paused to swipe his thumb across his phone, showing it to Officer Phelps, “I’m sure that you would have found that there is woman by the name of Raghda Abu Khadra that was to have arrived at Cardiff Metropolitan University two days ago but never did. Why might you suppose that is?” He finished sarcastically. John grinned, unabashedly.

Phelps stuttered. “I...That is…”

    “I can’t tell, are you a racist or just that incompetent?” The Consulting Detective asked, with a glance in John’s direction. This was usually where John reminded him to bring it down a notch.  He wasn’t feeling particularly charitable toward Inspector Phelps in that moment. Not with the young woman’s broken body lying in front of them, with no one who had cared who she was or how she had come to be there, until they had arrived. John thrived on Sherlock’s wacky brand of justice and would not deprive him the pleasure of ripping this helmet a new arsehole.

    “Now see here!”

    “Or perhaps you’re involved?” He went on, crowded into the Inspectors space, reigns loosened. “That’s why there was no real police work done on the victim. What do you think, John? Should we call Lestrade to take over this investigation?”

John didn’t get a chance to respond. Phelps, who had already turned an alarming shade of red, finally snapped. The former Army Captain watched as the Inspector lunged at Sherlock, which caused his flatemate to bend backwards out of his reach. It wouldn’t have mattered if he hadn’t. John caught the irate Policeman in a chokehold and pulled him back until he was well out of reach of his target. Said target tugged on his coat in annoyance, glanced at John in a subtle nod of thanks and gave the Inspector his worst ‘How dull’ face.

    “You done?” John asked his captive, who responded with a struggle and a grunt. John held on, binding but not choking, until Sherlock flagged down a passing Constable.  The commotion had started to draw a small crowd as well.

    “What in God’s name is going on here?” The Constable, Oxley said his nametape, asked, hands on his hips.

    “If I let you go, will you behave?” John asked Phelps.

    “Oh, what have you done now?”  Oxley demanded.

Sherlock looked at John with eyebrows raised in surprise.  He opened his mouth to explain but John didn’t let him. “Inspector Phelps was attempting to attack my colleague, Constable, I was merely restraining him.” He let Phelps go.  

    “I want these two arrested for assault,” he choked out between coughs. He rubbed a hand over his throat, which John thought was rather dramatic, he hadn’t been holding him _that_ tightly, much as he had wished.

    “I believe all this can be cleared up if we call Chief Inspector,” he looked at Sherlock, “Yates?”

He nodded. “We were asked here by Yates via Detective Inspector Lestrade of London Metro. I was asked to consult on this case involving Ms. Abu Kahdra.”

    “Who?”

Sherlock gestured sarcastically to Ms. Abu Kahdra lying on the slab.

The Constable looked to Phelps. “I thought she was a Jane Doe? When did you discover her identity?”

Sherlock leaned in. “That was me. I discovered her identity. Quite easily, I might add,” he mumbled.

Phelps growled, actually growled at Sherlock, but the Constable moved forward and put a restraining hand to his shoulder.

    “Let’s settle this at the station, shall we?” He looked Phelps over with thinly veiled disgust. “You’re with me. Gents,” he looked John and Sherlock over, “You know the way or do you need a ride?”

Sherlock, predictably, refused the offer. “We’ll be right behind you.”

    “Right,” he said and held his arm out for Phelps to precede him out into the hallway and cleared the crowd with a raised eyebrow. John turned to Sherlock and grinned. 

    “I’ll have this case solved in under an hour,” he said.

    “I know you will,” John agreed. “You really think he’s involved?”

    “I was baiting him. No, I don’t think he’s our perpetrator but I think he knows more than what he’s told us. I won’t be surprised to find out there have been similar cases like this over the years that he, or at least this department, has willfully ignored.” They left the lab and Sherlock hailed a taxi to take them to the station.  On the way, inexplicably, their previous conversation from the train came flitting across his mind. John, try as he might, couldn’t puzzle it out. Was Sherlock really so upset to find John couldn’t stomach the idea of his being a father? Sherlock, the self proclaimed sociopath, the keeper of body parts, the chemist who played with acid and fire? Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to feed himself, never mind if he had an infant in his care. That thought alone made him cringe. His opinion remained, Sherlock was manipulative, cruel on the worst days, indifferent on the good and it stood to reason he would make a mockery of the institution of child rearing. A small, echoing voice in John’s mind whispered, _If he’s so bad, then why do you stay?_   He looked over at Sherlock, from his dark curls to his expensive Italian shoes. Aesthetics aside, Sherlock was his best friend, his confidant, his adrenaline fix, his…

    “What?” Sherlock snapped at him.

…his greatest source of irritation, he mentally finished. World’s Greatest Dad, Sherlock would never be. End of story.

    “Nothing,” John muttered. Sherlock glared, silver eyes tried in vain to pierce through his lie.

    “Here we are, Gentlemen,” the cabbie announced, breaking the staring contest. 

The station was situated on a corner lot, grey stone against grey sky, and John felt a rush of incredibility at his situation as he looked it over. It was a feeling he hadn’t had in a long while, not since his first days as Sherlock’s ‘assistant’, and he wondered at it now.  Despite the strange return of the surreal quality, John soldiered on into the police station, only a step behind Sherlock. Chief Inspector Yates greeted them at the front desk, apparently having already been warned of their arrival.

    “Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson,” he greeted with a handshake for both. “Let me express my regret for the incident with Inspector Phelps.  He’s a bit high strung from working so hard lately.”

They both looked over at Sherlock’s snort of derision.

    “Yes, well,” John spoke up, with a glare at Sherlock, “no harm done. Sorry about having to restrain him.”

Yates waved it off. “Follow me to my office?” He led them past the front desk and into the interior of the station. Sherlock tracked their journey with subtle glances, it was clear to John that he was filing information on everyone and everything he saw, something that John admired to no end. Yates held the door to his office open for them with a gesture to the chairs in front of his desk.  Sherlock sat with the air of someone who owned the room and only allowed Yates to approach him out of magnanimousness.  John tried not to smile and failed.

    “Alright, Constable Oxley has informed me that you’ve identified our Jane Doe. How sure are you on that?”

    “Fairly sure. We’ll need to contact her family and have them identify her body but it seems likely. How sure are you of Inspector Phelps’ report of an Islamist Extremist senerio?” Sherlock countered.

    “Not sure at all. Why do you think I called you in?” He questioned which earned him a regal nod from King Sherlock.

    “I suggest you question CMU admission staff about Ms. Abu Khadra, look into her flight schedule, when she arrived, if she spoke with anyone upon arrival.”

Yates nodded as Sherlock spoke. “Yes, yes.”

    “I imagine there was no footage of how the victim came to be left in the alleyway.”

    “None. We searched through a six block radius. Whoever did it knew to avoid the cameras.”

    “Did you search the footage or did Phelps?”

Yates lifted his chin at that. Sherlock had his answer and he gave John a look to say they would have to go over that as well.

    “I’ll also need all your cases that might have similar patterns to this one. John and I will be canvassing the neighborhood, should you need us.” He stood to go but Yates stopped him.

    “Wait a moment. What similar cases? How far back should we go? Are you suggesting we’re dealing with a serial killer?”

    “Any similar cases. As far back as it takes. Yes.” With that he swept out of the room, leaving John to smooth over the details as usual.

    “You can reach us at my mobile. We’re staying at the Park Inn.” He gave a smile and hurried to catch up to Sherlock.

Without preamble, Sherlock said, “I’ll need to question the flight crew, the cabbie who brought her into town, the Greek restaurant where she stopped for food.” John attempted to interrupt but it was futile. “You head to University, question the staff. I don’t trust them to do a thorough job,” he said with a head toss towards the Police Station. John warmed at the thought that he did trust John enough. He knew it was true but it was still good to hear. Sherlock was in rare form today, the near compliments just kept coming.

    “Alright, I’ll meet you at the Hotel after.”

    “Agreed,” Sherlock said before he hailed John a taxi. A smirk appeared as he got inside. He was sure Sherlock didn’t even realize when his little gestures gave him away.

Some hours later, about mid afternoon, they met back up at the Hotel. Sherlock was sat crossed legged on the floor of their room, files flung in a seemingly haphazard array around him. He didn’t acknowledge John for at least half an hour.

    “This isn’t his base of operations,” he muttered.

    “Hmm,” John questioned, not looking up from his own notes.

    “What did you find? Quickly!” Sherlock demanded with grabby hands at Johns notes. The doctor near had a heart attack when Sherlock’s freakishly long arms reached out and snatched the notebook from his grasp. He prayed Sherlock didn’t flip to the page with his science experiment on it.  He scanned what John had written of his findings so far. That the administration’s office hadn’t heard from Ms. Abu Khadra since she had emailed to say she was on her way. Her intended roommate hadn’t seen or heard from her and no one on campus had seen her when confronted with the picture that the office had provided. It was a match for the body but he would let her family decide the final outcome on that score. Sherlock, thankfully, tossed his notebook back at him and stood to pace the room, stepping unheeded on the police reports.

    “He’s choosing women who are far from home. Women with obvious religious backgrounds. He does it in different countries within the British Isles, as far as I can tell, he knows the terrain well, and he never does more than one in a year.”

     “That’s awfully specific. How does he find them?”

     “Exactly,” Sherlock muttered with a frustrated hair ruffle.

John’s brow came down in contemplation. Though his deductive skills weren’t nearly on par with his partner’s, he did still try to help. Who would have access to these women? Sherlock said their religious backgrounds were obvious. He picked up a few files from the floor and scanned them. A recently converted nun found behind her convent, a devout parishioner from America on tour of the great Irish churches, a Dutch missionary who was on her way to Africa. All beaten, raped and left for dead. John scanned again, trying to see beyond the obvious pattern. A burst of inspiration caught him off guard and he blurted out, “The Airplane!” at the same time Sherlock exclaimed, “A steward!” Sherlock beamed at him and John flushed in obvious joy. As quick as it had come, Sherlock’s pride turned to annoyance.

    “I’d have solved it sooner if it weren’t for your…” He didn’t finish the accusation and John sputtered in indignation.

    “My what?” He demanded. Sherlock didn’t answer. He dove for his Belstaff, swung it on and dug his mobile from the pocket.

    “Yates. I need the flight records. What plane and who was staffing it the day she arrived. Pilot, crew, everyone. When I know, you’ll know. That’s your problem.” With that he hung up. “Coming?” He asked John on his way out the door. John jumped up and hurried after his mad flatmate.

    “Where are we going?” He asked when he caught up with Sherlock.

    “Food,” he answered cryptically.

    “Food?”

    “John, if I wanted a parrot for an assistant I would have purchased a parrot.”

John glared. “You’d have killed it in under an hour.”

    “Conjecture,” he mumbled.

John chuckled. “He is an ex-parrot,” he quoted.

    “Pardon?”

    “Monty Python…never mind.” He gave up on Sherlock understanding pop culture references a long time ago.

    “I know Monty Python,” Sherlock stated.

    “Oh, really?” John was understandably skeptic.

    “It’s a comedy…thing. To do with, um,” hand wiggle, “scenes of a comedic nature.”

John bent double, uncontrollable laughter emitted from his chest. People in the Hotel lobby stopped to stare. When he was able to look up, it was at Sherlock’s best pouty face, which only set him off on another round of laughter. Sherlock got fed up and walked off.  John rushed to keep up.

    “I’m sorry. Sherlock, wait. I’m sorry.” He continued to chuckle which didn’t lend his apology any credibility.

    “If you feel the need to mock me, do it elsewhere. I’ve haven’t got the patience just now.”

    “I wasn’t mocking you. You’re right. They were a comedy troupe.”

    “I know that,” he spit out. “My father was a fan.”

    “And you didn’t delete it,” John commented, curious. “Why’s that?”

    “Don’t know. Maybe I will.”

    “No!” John shouted. His outburst caused Sherlock to stop and look at him with that damned expressive eyebrow lifted. He flushed in embarrassment. “Sorry.”

    “You care. Why?”

 _Damn it._ He kicked at a non-existent rock.  “I don’t know.”

“Yes you do,” he whispered softly.

John sucked in an annoyed breath. “I don’t know, it just seems a shame.”

    “Why?” Sherlock demanded.

    “Because,” he formed the words as his thoughts coalesced, “you don’t usually share childhood memories with me. It seems a shame to lose something like that.”

Sherlock studied John, that same intense scrutiny that made John’s palms sweat.

    “I don’t understand,” Sherlock admitted.

    “You don’t need to. Come on, let’s get something to eat,” he announced, as if the idea had been his all along. He left Sherlock on the pavement. So bloody awkward. What was wrong with him? He shook his head.

    “Do you know where you’re going?” Sherlock asked when his long legs brought him back alongside John.

    “Of course not.”

    “Then why are you walking this way?”

    “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

    “There’s an Italian place around the corner if you’re interested.”

    “How do you know? Wind’s blowing in from the North West? Portly man walked by with a tomato stain?”

Sherlock cracked a smile. “I’ve been there before.”

The good Doctor sighed. “Of course you have. How’s the shrimp scampi?”

    “I’m sure it’s fine. I’d prefer a glass of Merlot myself.”

    “Sherlock…” John growled.

    “The case isn’t over yet. Really, John, aren’t you just as tired of this argument as I am?”

    “Apparently not.  And it was your idea to get food.”

    “For you, not for me. We’d time to kill and I’ve got to keep you fed up.”

    “Oh, I’m plenty fed up, thank you,” John said with a roll of his eyes.

    “Cute. You know what I meant. Who’s going to fill you up, if not me?”

John tripped over nothing but air. He pin wheeled to stay upright before Sherlock reached out and grabbed him by the back of his coat to set him to rights. Lord have mercy, what was that about? He looked around, not able to look Sherlock in the eyes for at least ten seconds.

    “Crack in the pavement,” he explained, not fooling the World’s Only Consulting Detective for a second. If John were a betting man, he’d have put money on the fact that Sherlock was smirking at him, as if he knew exactly what he had said and it’s wildly inappropriate connotation. Absurd. Sherlock didn’t flirt. And if he did, it wouldn’t be with John, certainly. Just to check that reality hadn’t disintegrated into chaos, he looked up at Sherlock again. He looked politely concerned, nothing more. Grey eyes, muted in the dying sunlight, looked back at him no more flirtatious then his Primary School Maths teacher, who as far as John was concerned was just as Asexual as Sherlock.

    “Better?” Sherlock asked, the picture of healthy, concerned friendship. That alone should have triggered John’s weariness, but seeing as he was praying for the scene to resolve itself and be over, he latched onto the concern.

    “Fine. Let’s go. I’m suddenly starving.”

    “Right this way.”

They set off again, John practically ran to get away from the moment, but of course he couldn’t, not with a gazelle for a flatmate. The restaurant was small, intimate even, and John panicked again for a moment that this would be one of those situations when someone mistook them for a couple. The girl at the door greeted them with an accent so thick John tilted his head in confusion, but Sherlock seemed to understand her just fine. She showed them to a booth, not a table, set two menus down, possibly wished them a good evening, and then left. John sighed in relief that there were no candles involved.

    “I’m going to the loo,” he said as he dropped his coat, “if the waiter comes by just get me a water.”

    “Right,” he said without looking up from his menu.

John turned and looked for the restroom sign. In a place this small one would think it would be obvious. After what was an unwarranted amount of time, John found the loo, did his business, washed up and left. His mental pep talk did little to settle his sudden nerves. It was ridiculous to feel this way about dinner with Sherlock. They’d done this dance a thousand times before. Something in the back of his mind screamed a warning though, like he was on uncertain ground with his flatmate, if only he’d look at the clues. _Enough_ , he shouted to himself. This was no different than any other dinner, any other day. The universe wasn’t out to get him.

    “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered upon returning to their table. Sherlock looked up innocently, the candlelight striking his ebony locks and sharp cheekbones most romantically. John pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why? Why didn’t you say anything to them?”

    “About what?”

    “About the bloody candle, Sherlock,” he growled with a frantic gesture. Sherlock looked at the taper in surprise, as if just noting it for the first time. John wasn’t fooled for a moment. His heart kicked, a sudden rush of adrenaline flooded his system, more than should be necessary under the circumstances, as no one currently pointed a weapon at him. He slid into the booth with precise care, taking note of Sherlock’s perusal.  The git had to be aware of the romantic ambience of the moment, he _had_ to be.  He tried to be subtle about moving the candle out of their way. They didn’t speak as the waiter set their drinks down with a smile. Water for John, a red wine for Sherlock. Normally this was the point in which John would chastise his flatmate for drinking on an empty stomach but honestly he _hoped_ Sherlock got pissed because when he did John was going to pull out every interrogation technique the Army had ever taught him to find out just what the bloody hell was going on.

    “What can I get for you gentlemen this evening?” The waiter asked. John realized he hadn’t even glanced at the menu. He flipped it open and pointed at the first thing his eyes landed on, didn’t care what it was. The waiter looked to Sherlock, who waved him away rudely, eyes never leaving John’s.  He had no choice but to take a huge gulp of water, as his mouth was busy alternatively drying out and filling with saliva. He wished the bloody kitchen would burst into flames so they’d have a distraction.

    “John,” Sherlock said and John reluctantly drew his eyes up to the man.

    “Yeah?”

    “We should get a dog. I’m partial to bulldogs.”

John paused just long enough draw enough air into his lungs for a monstrously loud cackle. When he let loose, the sound of it drew the attention of everyone in the room. Sherlock looked so put out John kept laughing, unable to stop.

    “This is the second time in an hour you’ve had a laugh at my expense. I’ll let you know, I don’t appreciate it.” He frowned so disapprovingly that John almost felt chastised. Almost.

    “You can’t be serious,” John said with a swipe of a finger to remove the tear from his eye.

    “I certainly am. I don’t appreciate it at all.”

    “No, about getting a dog. Why in bloody hell would we? We’re out more often than not. Again, you aren’t exactly the nurturing type,” which caused Sherlock to frown even deeper, “and we both know you wouldn’t be able to resist experimenting on the poor creature.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue but John cut him off. “No, Sherlock, seriously, it’s a terrible idea.”

    “I think I could keep a _dog_ alive, John,” he spit derisively.

    “How about this, we’ll get you a fern. If you can keep it alive for a full year we can get a hedgehog or something.”

    “Why would we get a hedgehog? Honestly, John, you are utterly ridiculous.”

John smiled. “Yep, I’m the ridiculous one. You’d get a hedgehog because even if you managed to keep the fern alive I still wouldn’t trust you with a dog. The hedgehog is another trial run.”

    “Utterly ridiculous,” he muttered again into his glass of wine. A thoughtful look came over his face. “Though I’ve never tested the durability of human skin against their quills.”

    “See? This is what I’m talking about. We haven’t even had the hedgehog for thirty seconds and already you’ve mentally plucked him and stabbed me with the quills.”

    “Oh, don’t be like that. For…”

    “Science,” he interrupted, “yeah I know. You’re still not getting a pet. Come to think of it, you probably shouldn’t have a fern either. I shudder to think of the creative ways you could use it against me.”

Sherlock’s grin was positively evil. They were interrupted by the waiter who set Johns plate of pasta down with a basket of breadsticks. He pushed the bread at Sherlock, who as per usual ignored it, and lifted his napkin to set in his lap. Upon glancing at his plate he stopped and frowned.

    “What?” Sherlock asked.

John looked up. “What did I order?”

    “ _Rustichella D'Abruzzo_ ,” Sherlock answered.

    “What the hell is Rusty-whatever-you-just-said?”

Sherlock cracked a smile. “I believe it’s squid ink pasta with shrimp and scallops.”

He gulped. “Squid ink, you say?”

    “Yep,” he smacked his lips.

John shrugged. He’d eaten worse in his Army days. He twirled his fork around the noodles and shoved the lot in his mouth.

    “Good?” Sherlock asked.

    “Hmm, not bad actually,” he mumbled with a full mouth. Sherlock rolled his eyes. They continued on in companionable silence as John ate, the tension of before evaporated, thankfully. He found that he was so hungry he finished his squid ink meal and the whole basket of bread, which made him feel a bit guilty but then he thought, hell, Sherlock wasn’t going to eat it anyway.

    “Finished?” Sherlock asked.

    “Yeah, I’m stuffed. Let’s sit for a bit longer, I want to let it settle.” He patted his stomach.

    “You could have paced yourself,” he said.

    “If there’s one thing I’ve learned from living with you, it’s that real meals are few and far between. I stuff myself out of necessity.”

    “I hope you’ve learned more than that.”

John thought about the experiment he was running, unbeknownst, on Sherlock and smiled. “I might have.”

    “What else have you learned?”

    “I know when you’re lying, for one.”

    “No you don’t,” Sherlock stated, so damn sure of himself.

John’s smile felt a bit smug, he couldn’t help it, he was so certain of his new found knowledge of Sherlock’s traceable tell. “You lied about Mycroft wanting you for a case. You begged Greg for an out of town case, I still don’t know why, but it wasn’t because of Mycroft.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, closed it, squinted at John and then settled on, “Why would I do that?”

    “You tell me.”

    “No.”

John chuckled, chuffed to bits at Sherlock’s petulant admission to his being right.

    “You don’t seem that upset. Why?”

    “In the grand scheme of things, lying about that doesn’t seem that big a deal. You’ve lied about worse. I am curious to know why though.”

    “Ugh, you are so frustrating,” Sherlock practically yelled. John gaped at the man. “There’s got to be something…” He was clearly talking to himself now, he’d tuned John out completely, he knew the look well. John motioned to the waiter for their bill, and then reached across the table, into Sherlock’s jacket for his wallet. If the nutter was going to ruin a perfectly good conversation by retreating into his own head the least he could do was pay for the meal. He had just signed for the bill and was handing it over to the waiter when Sherlock slapped a hand down on the table and shouted, “If you were going to kill me, how would you do it?”

John looked up at the waiter, sickeningly sweet smile pasted on. “Sorry,” he chuckled.

    “Don’t pretend you haven’t thought about it,” he growled, finger pointed at John accusingly.

    “I certainly have,” he muttered through his smile at the waiter. The poor kid took the hint and nodded out. “Have you lost your mind? You’re going to get us arrested.”

    “Don’t be an idiot. A hypothesis is hardly an admission of intent.” He squinted at John again. “Unless it is.”

    “You’re mental,” he laughed.

    “How. Would. You. Do. It?” He demanded, grey eyes shifting to green as he watched.

 John smiled, wide and uncontrollably as he rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “I’ve been told I’m a good shot.”

Sherlock gasped in horror. “You were going to shoot me!”

John was so hysterical at that point the only reason he wasn’t on the floor was because the booth caught his upper body as he fell over. Sherlock’s head appeared over the table.

    “Deny it, I dare you.”

He couldn’t speak for want of breath, which Sherlock took as an admission of guilt. He gaped like a fish. John was near epileptic with fits of laughter. His ribs and abs burned with the effort. Christ, he hadn’t laughed as hard as he had today in years.

    “I’ve been living with an attempted murderer for years,” Sherlock wondered out loud.

    “In fairness, you’ve been living with an _actual_ murderer for years,” John managed to get out before the next round of laughter came. Sherlock sucked in another breath in shocked realization.

    “Stop, I’m dying,” John cackled.

    “Unbelievable. How did I miss this? Me? You must be the most proficient killer of all time. The Cabbie…Who else?” He demanded.

    “Oh, God, Sherlock. Seriously, stop. I can’t breathe.”

    “Good,” he snarled. “I’m being proactive.”

John clutched at the table cloth, begged for a respite in his hysteria. God, he really hadn’t laughed this hard, ever, that he could remember. He was breathing heavy and heaving by the time he got it under a semi-controlled state and tried to sit back up.

    “Sher…Jesus, hold on,” he coughed hard. “Ugh, don’t do that again. I’m too old for this shit.” He almost went into another fit seeing Sherlock, who was glaring at John, a butter knife clenched in his grasp, but he was all laughed out, so all he managed was another coughing fit.

    “Bringing a butter knife to a gun fight?” John asked.

    “I’ve defended myself with less,” he said with all seriousness.

    “Jesus, you seriously believe I want to kill you,” he chuckled with realization.

    “You all but admitted it,” he growled.

    “No, you daft git.”

    “Yes.”

    “No,” he drawled. “You asked _how_ I would. Not _if_ I was _going_ to.”

    “You admitted to thinking about it,” he pointed out.

Another surprised chuckle. “Of course I’ve thought about it. Once a day since the day we met I’d guess.”

Sherlock clutched the butter knife tighter, nearly setting John off again.

    “You put human organs next to our dinner in the fridge. Your idea of doing the laundry is pouring acid over our stuff in the bathtub. You insult our friends and then flounce off, leaving me to apologize.”

    “I don’t flounce.”

    “You certainly do.”

    “I don’t. It’s the coat.”

John smiled. “Alright, Sherlock, it’s the coat,” he agreed slowly.

    “If I’m so bad, what’s taken so long? Why haven’t you blown my brains out yet?”

    “My God, Sherlock. I don’t want to blow your brains out. What a waste that would be.”

    “Poison? No, you’re too hands on.” He pondered. “Garroting?” He guessed. “No, too short.”

John glared. “I could wait until you were sitting down,” he said, getting into the game with relish.

    “No, you must be waiting for some specific event or opportunity,” he deduced out loud.

    “You are unbelievable,” he stated, but there was a small chance it came out sounding complementary. He shook his head. “Why do you think I want to kill you?”

He didn’t answer right away. When he did, “It’s obvious.”

    “Pretend I’m an idiot.”

He raised an eyebrow which John mirrored, daring him to respond negatively to his statement.

    “I’ve eliminated everything else. There isn’t a viable alternative.”

    “To what?”

    “To you.”

    “My what?”

    “It’s that or…But that’s clearly not…possible…” He stared John down, practically caressed him with his silver eyes. John squirmed under the gaze. He wished he had figured out what the grey meant, as it seemed to be the most prolific. “Whatever remains…” He mumbled to himself. “You don’t want to kill anyone?”

    “Certainly not,” he agreed with a smile.

    “Certainly?”

    “Quite.”

    “Not even me?”

He took a breath for patience. “Not even you, Sherlock.”

He sat back in his seat, the knife dropped as he put his fingers to his lips. John was baffled. More so when Sherlock jumped up from his seat, snatched John by the wrist and yanked him through the restaurant. When they hit the pavement John pulled his arm out of the Detectives grasp.

    “The hell, Sherlock?”

    “No time, come on, John.” He took off back towards the Hotel.

    “The case?” He guessed. Was that what all this madness was about? He followed behind, hard pressed to keep up. The woman behind the front desk in the lobby cocked her head at them as they passed but John didn’t even have time to give his customary apology smile. Sherlock was in the lift and John had to practically dive in to avoid being left behind.

    “Would you slow down and tell me,” he tried to say and got shushed for his efforts. A glare fazed him not at all. John noted his flatmate practically clawed at the air. “Are you alright? _I’m_ not about to be murdered, am I?”

Sherlock turned and looked at him then. “No,” he said in wonder. John backed up, not nearly convinced enough. Sherlock took a step towards him but the lift dinged and the doors opened and he once again found himself being drug around by his arm like a child. Sherlock fumbled with the key card, hands practically shaking in his effort. John became fully concerned then.

    “What is wrong with you?” He asked but he was shoved inside the room before he could judge for himself what was going on. The next thing he knew he was being snatched and pushed up against the door to their room. “What the,” he attempted to speak. He didn’t get the chance. Sherlock had a quite large hand cradled to the back of his neck and for the first time in his life he was being kissed by a man. All systems shut down, everything but his epidermal system, which flushed and caught fire in an instant. His muffled cry of surprise was immediately swallowed by Sherlock as he opened his mouth and dug his way into Johns. Something about feeling Sherlock’s tongue against his own snapped him into gear and he finally participated in the madness for the first time since it had started. Sherlock’s response was perfect, exactly what he didn’t know he needed. John found himself pressed harder into the door, pushed up onto Sherlock’s thigh. He held on by the silk under Sherlock’s coat, fingers clawing and grasping whatever he could get his hands on. There was a chance he was going to pass out, the thought came and went and still they didn’t stop. Sherlock thrust against him and he whimpered to feel the evidence of how very unlike a woman he was, and despite everything he knew about himself, he had never been so turned on to feel that evidence. Suddenly Sherlock pulled away, and John blinked his eyes open to figure out what had happened, but they hadn’t turned the lights on, he could barely see in the darkened room.  The sliver of light through the bottom of the door did little to illuminate their surroundings.

   “What, what, what,” he panted breathlessly, not even sure what he was asking but the question morphed into a groan as Sherlock moved down to his throat, leaving opened mouth kisses in his wake. John turned his head away to give him easier access, a sharp nip of teeth caused him to suck in a breath, to thrust harder against Sherlock’s long thigh.  Despite his age, John felt that tell tale flush, the tightening of his insides and outsides, that signaled a fantastic climax.

    “Jesus Christ! Sherlock, I’m going to…I’m going to come like this,” he gasped in wonder. He then immediately found himself flat footed on the floor once again, almost collapsed really.

    “No, you’re not,” Sherlock growled in lust fueled promise, and he shivered at the sound. John heard the Belstaff hit the floor in a dull thump next. He reached out to find Sherlock unbuttoning his shirt. John became frantic, unwilling for Sherlock to have that privilege alone. He tugged and pulled at the expensive material, uncaring what he did to it in his need. He had most likely wrinkled it beyond repair already. He ran the flat of both hands around Sherlock’s midsection until they met across his back, and then down, down, into his trousers he went, gliding through his boxer briefs (he knew, he did Sherlock’s laundry after all) to cup his arse. His flatmate groaned and his head fell back, giving John easy access to mark Sherlock as he had marked John. He got a great, wide mouthful of the meat that made up the base of his neck where it met his shoulder, and Sherlock let out the sexiest noise John had ever heard. He dug his nails into his arse, literally clawing at the bounty in his hand. Sherlock pushed him back but only enough so he could rip at John’s own clothes. He tried to help but ended up with a growling flatmate for his trouble. Eventually, once they were both mostly nude, John was pretty sure he still had one sock on, Sherlock picked him up by the back of his thighs and carried him across the room. John pressed his mouth once again to that ridiculous, perfect  Cupid Bow and he hummed in appreciation at the feel. He wrongly assumed Sherlock was carrying them to the bed but when he heard a great crash and his back met cold wood, he knew Sherlock had thrown him onto the desk. Didn’t matter. He was now pressed hip to hip with the man on top of him and he hissed, back bowed, in pleasure.

    “Oh, Christ, yes,” he cried out.

    “John,” Sherlock groaned, his voice at least an octave lower than John had ever heard. It was almost enough to do him in. His cock literally twitched to hear the sound of his name from Sherlock’s lips, in that voice, that wrecked tone of the sexually aroused.

    “Sherlock, I need…God, I need,” he panted.

    “Tell me.”

    “Anything, everything. Just hurry,” he pleaded. Yes, he wanted this to last forever, but no, if he didn’t come in the next few seconds, he was going to die. Sherlock took mercy and John found himself being wrapped in his best mates grasp, those long fingers seemingly everywhere at once around him. He cried out, practically sobbed in relief. If he had been coherent in the least, he’d have wondered at the skill he was administering but at the moment he couldn’t be bothered. All he felt was electric pleasure. John held onto Sherlock’s forearms, felt the muscles bunch under his skin and prayed for dear life.

    “Yes,” Sherlock hissed close to his ear. “Give me this, it’s mine. Tell me it’s mine.”

    “Fuck yes! Yours!” He cried, incoherent with pleasure. Sherlock practically roared in triumph and was then inexplicably gone from on top of him. John almost whimpered at the loss but any thought he had on the matter was obliterated when he found himself engulfed inside Sherlock’s mouth. He cried out, shocked, but so close nothing mattered but the feeling. Sherlock made a noise, a frequency so low it was almost inaudible, but John could sure as hell feel it, shoved down the detective’s throat the way he was and in a matter of seconds he swelled against Sherlock’s tongue and shook loose the greatest orgasm he’d ever experienced.  Sherlock continued to suck until John was so sensitive he kicked out in sensation. He took a hint and stopped, but instead of moving off, he stayed and actually nuzzled at John’s thigh. He could feel the sweat soaked curls against his skin and he smiled through the panting and huffing. No use pretending that hadn’t happened, it was definitely Sherlock down there.

    “Hey,” he called out, “you didn’t, I mean I didn’t…” He didn’t know how to say he hadn’t reciprocated but Sherlock got the hint.

    “No worries. It’s taken care of.”

    “What?” John lifted up on his forearms. “How dare you!”

Sherlock looked up. “What?”

    “I gave you mine and you took yours, you prat!”

    “It couldn’t be helped.”

    “Horseshit!” He thought back to seconds earlier. “Wait a minute. You’re lying your arse off. You had your hands on me the whole time.” Did he think John wasn’t capable of reciprocating? Did he think he was doing John a favour? His pride bristled.

    “Yes,” he drawled, as if to imply, ‘And?’

    “I don’t think you did get off.” He sounded childish, hurt, even to his own ears.

    “John,” Sherlock practically purred, which made John perk up in attention. “I swallowed yours,” he reached down below where he was crouched, still between John’s thighs, “so where did this come from?” He asked and before John could so much as take a breath to reply Sherlock swiped two fingers across his lips. He opened up instinctively and was invaded by what was clearly the taste of his flatmates semen. He groaned at the combination of Sherlock’s words, his actions, his taste and he sucked at the long digits in greed. His cock gave a hopeful twitch, to say ‘Give me another minute and we’re back in business.’  Sherlock breathed audibly at the sensation and John knew then he was going to be marvelously proficient at sucking cock. Hell, if Sherlock was sensitive enough to get off without being touched, he shuddered to imagine what he could do to him with his tongue. Eventually, Sherlock removed his fingers.

    “Point taken,” John conceded which rewarded him with a laugh. “You know, that should have been disgusting, you feeding me semen off the floor of a Hotel, but honestly if I were twenty years younger, you’d be flat on your back right now.”

    “Thought you’d like that.” He could barely see but he sensed Sherlock was smiling, smug and confident.

    “You’re still a prat. Take me to bed. I’m going to sleep for a week.”  

    “Yes, Sir.”

John found himself deposited onto the bed but suspiciously alone seconds later. He looked up.

    “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

    “It’s only eleven o’clock. I’m going to get some research in while you’re asleep.”

    “Not over there you’re not,” he told the git as he sat on his bed next to Johns, “get your arse over here.”

    “Uh, no. I think not.”

    “Then I’ll come to you.” He leapt up and dove for the other bed. Sherlock scrambled but got caught, twisted up, in the blankets. John wrapped steel like bands around his frantic prey.

    “Damn it! Stop this at once!”

    “Mmm,” John hummed into Sherlock’s neck, thoroughly ignoring his prisoners protests.

    “You _will_ stop this at once!”

    “Shh, just let it happen,” he mumbled. He threw a leg on top of Sherlock and squeezed him tight, more content then he had any right to be. Eventually all became quiet.

The last thing he heard before he drifted off into unconsciousness was a bemused, mumbled, “Should have seen this coming.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does it surprise anyone that John is a cuddler and that Sherlock would be horrified by such a concept? Maybe Sherlock is laying awake thinking, "Once you've cuddled someone, you've cuddled everyone they have cuddled," and he's having a mild panic attack.


	3. How it concludes...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock wake up the next morning with doubts about the previous night and then have to deal with the consequences of their actions. Whatever will they do about it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have chosen the left path and have entered The Cave of Endless Suffering. It's too dark to see and you fall into a pit of feels and drown. Go back to Page 367 and choose another fate.

        John  awoke, fairly early he guessed from the soft light coming from the window, to a sweaty back and twisted limbs. Someone was breathing hot, sticky air against the back of his neck and he was pinned to the mattress on his stomach by what seemed like at least three different people. He was thinking to himself, _‘What the hell?’_ as he tried to get away but whoever was on top of him snagged him up and pressed them fully together, chest to knees, and he was made very aware that this person was neither soft nor feminine but a combination of sharp joints and long limbs. Something was wrong. Very wrong. When a rumbling baritone sighed contently in his ear, the previous night came flashing back with a vengeance.

    “What the fucking fuck?!” He cried out as he flung himself out of bed. Sherlock woke up at that with equal wide eyed panic and scrambled to get his feet on the floor. They stared at each other in abject horror.

    “What the fuck?” John repeated.

Sherlock scrubbed a hand over his untamable morning curls. “That’s never happened to me before.”

    “Bullshit!” John accused. Sherlock looked offended. “If you’ve never given a blowjob before then I’m the Queen.”

Sherlock cocked his head to the side. “Well, of course I’ve given a blowjob before.”

    “Then why did you say you hadn’t?”

    “I didn’t.”

    “Yes, you did.”

    “When?”

    “Just now.”

    “About the blowjob?”

    “Yeah.”

    “What?” He looked thoroughly confused.

    “You said that had never happened to you before.”

    “Oh. No, not that,” he waved at the desk, “I meant this.” He waved at the bed.

John closed his eyes. “Let me get this straight…you’re upset, not because you blew your flatmate into a fantastic climax but…”

    “Fantastic, eh?”

John opened his eyes to see Sherlock looking positively smug. _Do not kill._ _Take a breath, try again._

    “Not because we had sex, but because we had a cuddle afterwards?”

Sherlock shuddered in revulsion. “Yes, it would seem so. I’m not very happy about that I must say. I’ve lost,” a glance at the clock, “Jesus! Nine hours John!”

    “Agh!” He chucked a pillow at Sherlock’s head, the safest form of attack, and fled to the bathroom. He paced for thirty seconds before becoming aware that he was completely nude with the exception of one sock.

    “John, come on. You’re being childish.”

He stared at the door and prayed for laser vision. His scowl alone should have at least started a small fire.

    “I don’t understand this at all. I’m the one who should be upset. I mean you’ve been practically begging for it all week and now you’re acting like…”

John flung the door open. Head cocked daringly he growled, “I’m sorry, I’ve been doing _what?_ ”

    “You’ve been begging for it. Haven’t you?” He looked down at John, and a wrinkle appeared between his eyes.

    “Mmm, no, don’t think I have.”

    “But,” a deeper scowl, his eyes roamed over John in confusion. John reached for the terrycloth bathrobe on the door peg and put it on. “But you said you weren’t thinking about murder.”

He scoffed. “I wasn’t _then_. And what the hell does that have to do with anything?”

    “I don’t understand this at all. Not at all, John Watson.”

    “You conveniently don’t understand what you’ve done wrong again. Go figure.”

    “No I don’t.” Deeper scowl. His face was going to stick that way if he kept it up.

    “You…ugh! You can’t just go around blowing your flatmates, Sherlock!”

    “So, is this a new house rule, John?” He growled.

    “I would have thought this one was implied,” he growled back sarcastically.

    “But you enjoyed it. I don’t see the issue.”

John opened his mouth but, honestly, what could he say to that? Lying was out of the question. He tried to get his thoughts back in order, to wrap his dignity back around him but the scratchy housecoat would have to do, because he had nothing. At least Sherlock had the sense to put his trousers back on for this argument.

    “For crying out loud, John, what exactly _is_ the issue here?”

    “You just assumed. You didn’t even give me a damn choice.”

    “Oh, you’re one to talk Mr. ‘Shut-up-and-let-it-happen’!” 

    “That was cuddling!” He shouted back.

    “Disgusting! And time consuming!”

    “You!” He stuttered in indignation. “You wiped jizz off the floor and put it in my mouth!”

    “Didn’t hear you complaining last night.”

    “And I didn’t hear you complaining ten minutes ago while you were being the big spoon and sighing contently in my ear!”

Sherlock looked ready to do murder, which was grossly unfair John thought. He shook his head, hoping something would knock loose and he’d be returned to his own reality. He got a finger in his face instead.

    “You. Wanted. This.”

    “Says every perp to his victim. Next you’re gonna say it was the jumper and you couldn’t control yourself.”

Sherlock gaped, eyes wide. “Say I raped you one more time. I dare you.”

John scrubbed a hand over his face. It wasn’t fair, he knew that. “I’m sorry. You’re right, that wasn’t okay. But, honestly, Sherlock, I don’t know where you’re getting this ‘I wanted it’ crap.”

    “When a person maintains continuous eye contact without blinking for greater than six seconds, they’re either thinking about sex or murder. I ruled out murder, by your own words.”

    “But…”

    “Yes, and now you’ll say that you could have been thinking about sex with someone else, yes, but you see I ruled that out as well. You haven’t been out all week. Not once have you so much as flirted with anyone we’ve been in contact with. Not even April, the serving girl who works downstairs at Speedy’s, who you _always_ flirt with because you both know she’s too young for you and she’ll never say yes. You didn’t flirt with the woman who works in the lobby who so obviously would have been up for it. Nor the hostess from the restaurant last night who smiled at you, which seems to be all it usually takes for you to flirt. It’s just been me. What else was I supposed to think?”

Christ, he almost had John doubting himself. But he shook his head. “No. Honestly, I wasn’t. I really wasn’t thinking about,” he waved at the desk, which seemed to be the safe way to say ‘Having sex with you.’

Sherlock cocked his head again. “Then…why?” He motioned to his own face halfheartedly.

   “Christ,” John muttered, finally understanding what had happened.  “Oh, God, it really is my fault.”

    “That’s what I’ve been saying.”

    “Shut up or so help me the guilt will become a thing of the past and I _will_ decide to blown your brains out.” A deep breath for patience. “Last week, the night I came home from the pub crawl with Mike and Bill?” Sherlock nodded. “You said something, I’m not sure what exactly, after I wrecked your experiment. Something about my lack of scientific method appreciation or something.”

    “I said, ‘What would you know about the sacrifice given in the name of scientific exploration?’”

    “Yeah, that bit. Well, in my drunk addled brain I thought if I did an experiment,” embarrassed flush, “and proved to you that I wasn’t an idiot, that you would take it back. Or something.”

    “And?”

    “And…I made a list. Stupid really. What was in Mrs. Hudson’s Herbal Soothers? Things like that.”

    “Salvia Divinorum, a bit of Diethyl Ether and some other fairly common garden herbs.”

    “Right,” John drawled. He thought back to the day he found Mrs. Hudson laughing in front of the tele, which wasn’t on.  “Right. Anyway, I sort of decided to do one on you.”

A pause in which Sherlock blinked seven times. “Me?”

    “Yes.”

    “You ran an experiment on _me_?”

    “Sort of, yes.”

    “Sort of?”

    “Okay, yes, I did do an experiment of sorts. Not like the ones you do, I might add, but yes.”

    “After all the times I’ve been grumbled at, yelled at, back handed, over my experiments…But it’s okay for you to do it?”

    “Alright, you _needed_ to be back handed that time, so I don’t feel bad for that. And like I said, it wasn’t like the ones you do.”

    “Yes, you keep saying that.”

    “Look, nobody got hurt is what I’m saying. It was just observational research. I’ll stop now and we can go back to normal. No need for us to be at each other’s throats.”

Sherlock backed up a step and blinked several more times. “Ah, yes, let’s just chalk this up to lesson learned and forget all about it, shall we? It’ll be something that we can laugh about later. ‘Whoops, remember that time we had sex, wasn’t that crazy?’”

John felt ill. He watched as the detective spit sarcastic vitriol at him but all the while Sherlock was subtly rubbing the heel of his hand over his breastbone in a motion that anyone who had ever been dumped could easily recognize.  Either he knew he was doing it and was trying to manipulate John into feeling badly or he did it unconsciously and the reality was John had just broken his heart. Either option was unacceptable.  He sucked in a breath to explain but Sherlock’s phone rang and cut through the silence of the room like a gunshot. He dove down for it, the ringing had come from his coat pocket.

    “Yes,” he answered. John watched in growing anxiety as Sherlock, instead of dropping the coat back to the floor, wrapped himself inside it, clearly not caring that he wore no shirt underneath. Anyone who knew Sherlock, knew that coat was his armor. He wore it all year round, even when it became a health hazard in the summer months. John put his hand over his mouth as Sherlock paced up and down the room. Good God Almighty, he had broken Sherlock Holmes’s heart. His own breathing became erratic, his skin felt too tight. He both wanted to flee and to stay. “I understand. Anything I can do to help? Yes. Again, I’m truly sorry.”

John snapped out of his horror to hear that rare apology. Sherlock looked up after he got off the mobile. Whatever it was, it was worse, somehow, then what had just happened here.

    “Yates?” John asked.

 Sherlock didn’t answer right away. He swiped a thumb across his phone with a scowl.

    “Ten forty-five, Yates texts to say they had narrowed down a suspect. Eleven twenty, he called. Twelve fifty-five, he called. One twenty-seven, he texts to say that the suspect was tipped off and had fled on an unknown flight. That was Yates just now calling to tell me that he was in the wind and if they found him, they would give me a call. Thanks for our help.” He looked up at John in accusation.

John dropped onto the nearest chair and gripped his head in his hands, fingernails scraped across his scalp in a small punishment. He deserved much more. If he’d let Sherlock stay up last night, a murderer wouldn’t have gotten away.

    “Guilt will serve no one,” Sherlock stated coldly. “Pack your bags, we’re going home.”

    “What?”

    “You heard me.” He scooped his clothes from the floor and stuffed them into his bag. John watched him, wrinkled pants, no shirt, coat opened to his exposed chest and he felt his heart contract. He’d slept his way through enough situations at Uni to know what sex did to friendships. ‘Home’, he’d said. Was it going to stay his home when they returned? John wanted to rail, to accuse, to throw things but instead he got up, got dressed and began to pack. How was he to know sex was the way to Sherlock’s heart? How was he to know Sherlock had one to begin with? He slammed his suitcase shut and let his head hang to his chest. Of course Sherlock had a heart. Jesus, he wasn’t blind, he did know that.

    “Ready?” Sherlock asked without a single glance back to confirm John followed as he walked out. He took a step to follow but stopped. The room was a mess, blankets tangled on the floor, lamp smashed in Sherlock’s haste to get up, detritus from the desk scattered below around it. He stared at the desk, suddenly unwilling to depart. What had seemed surreal last night in the dark, a fluke in the cool light of morning, seemed utterly serious in the wake of their cacophony. There, upon that desk, John Hamish Watson and Sherlock Holmes had fantastic bloody sex. Did he really want to go back to the way it was before? Knowing what he knew now? He looked at the door, where it had started, with an unconscious finger to his lips. Good Lord, that really was the best shag of his life and they’d barely scratched the surface. A surprised laugh escaped. Sherlock Holmes. Who knew? Another laugh, this one a touch hysteric. He turned, for the sake of his sanity, and left the room. Whatever happened, happened, he told himself. What mattered now was Sherlock and the solution to their current issue: A murderer had gotten away and Sherlock wouldn’t just stand by and let that happen, despite how resolved he was acting now. John pulled his mobile, noted that it hadn’t been charged in the night, obviously, and quickly texted Lestrade to let him know they were on high alert. He received a reply as they made their way to the lobby.

_I heard what happened. I’ll gather all the info I can. GL_

For a moment, John thought Greg knew about last night, but he shook his head with a chuckle.

    “Something amusing?” Sherlock voice grumbled to his right. He faced the desk at the checkout but his head was canted toward John in a sarcastic tilt.

    “No,” John mumbled, clearly guilty, with a smile for the woman at the counter. He handed over their key cards and did his best not to look up at his friend.

    “Seems to me like you find this situation lacking in severity.”

    “No. No. I was just…”

    “You do realize,” he interrupted, “that without a proper understanding of our killer, I’ve no way to guess his next move? Is he the type to lay low after so closely being caught? Seems likely. He’s gotten away with several murders thus far, must be smart. But maybe not. Maybe he’s the type to get off on being so smart. Maybe he’ll snatch another victim tonight to keep the high going. The sociopath in me hopes that he does, mistakes will be made in such an endeavor, and he’ll be more likely to be caught, but I know that you, dear John, would not wish for that outcome. Bit not good, as you would say. So, here we are. Hope he lays low, leaves the female population be, thus insuring we don’t find him for another year, or hope he strikes again and takes an innocent life so that we have another slim opportunity to catch him? Neither seems a viable option, don’t you agree?”

John’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. Sherlock, as ever, had crowded his personal space. Peripheral sight showed the woman at the counter had backed away in fear.

John found his tongue. “We’ll find him,” he stated with surety.

    “No,” Sherlock spit, “ _I_ will find him. _You_ will watch in ignorance and awe, possibly with a glowing review of my brilliance tacked on the end.” With that he turned on his heel and stormed from the Hotel. John watched, struck dumb, as his flatmate hailed a cab without him and drove off. The woman at the counter blinked at him when he turned his head to look at her.

    “He always talk to you like that?” She asked. 

    “Yes. No. I…Bloody Hell,” he growled. _I’m in a bloody abusive relationship!_ He stomped off without another word. No excuse came to mind anyway, why bother trying to explain? He hailed a taxi, which took twice as long without Sherlock, and hoped that the man at least waited for the same train.

    “Ya look like shite, mate,” the cabbie stated when he got in.

John looked up. “Ta.”

    “If ya don’t mind my asking.”

    “No, by all means,” he mumbled sarcastically.

    “Girl troubles?”

John burst out laughing.

    “Boy troubles?”

That shut him up. The cabbie nodded sagely. John moaned into his hands. “That obvious?”

    “Ya get a feel for this sort of thing,” he explained.  “Wanna talk about it?”

    “Not particularly.”

    “Might make ya feel better. Random cabbie. Never gonna see each other again. C’mon, mate, let it out.”

    “Do I owe you extra for being my trick cyclist?”

    “Not at all, mate,” he said with a laugh.

    “Alright, hell, let’s do it. Last night I slept with my flatmate for the first time, which in turn caused a serial killer to escape justice and possibly elude capture for the foreseeable future, which will likely cause my flatmate to dismiss me entirely, which would be a real shame because I think I’m in love with him.” His eyes widened. _Oh, shit._

    “Hmm,” the cabbie hummed, intrigued. “Can’t say I’ve heard that one before.” 

    “Yeah, me neither,” he groaned. “Christ.” John fell forward, forehead to his knees.

    “Come as a surprise, then, did it?”

    “You could say that. How?” He mumbled to himself.

    “Never fallen for a friend before?”

    “Not like this.”

    “It was the same for the missus and meself. Grew up next door all our lives. Used to pull her hair as a wee one, I did.” He smiled. “One day, about sixteen or so, she suddenly had bosoms and long legs and somethin’ that used to be easy and fun became kinda complicated. I lucked out and she felt the same way. Been together ever since.”

    “Bit different then my situation though. Sherlock doesn’t have bosoms.”

    “Sherlock?” The cabbie turned full in his seat to look at John.

    “Whoa, watch the road!” John yelled amid honking horns and screeching tires.

    “Holy God, I thought ya looked familiar! Yer John Watson!”

    “I never should have started that blog,” he groaned.

    “Wait, I thought you and Sherlock were already an item?”

John unwillingly chuckled. “Not until last night, no. Please,” he pleaded, meeting the cabbies eyes in the mirror, “can we keep this between us? I don’t know how it’s going to play out and I’d rather not have to deal with more rumor and conjecture than I already do.”

    “Of course, mate, of course. Can I just say, I think you and Sherlock are really great together? Sort of complimentary like, d’know what I mean? The missus thinks so too.”

John didn’t know what to do with that information. He nodded awkwardly, unable to keep his eyes from roaming. “Thanks.”

    “Yeah, no problem. Keep a chin up. These things have a way of workin’ out.”

    “How?” John asked, dejected and suddenly depressed. No, this was certainly the worst outcome to his stupid experiment. Now things would get awkward, they would tip toe around each other until either Sherlock snapped under the strain of the change in John or John left because his feeling got to be too much. Why didn’t he see this coming? Was he really so shallow that all it took was one night of physical pleasure to tip his feelings in such a way?

    “Does he know how ya feel?” The cabbie asked softly.

John sighed. “He usually knows what I’m thinking before I do. He certainly did last night.” The cabbie chuckled at this. “But feelings? Not really his strong suit. Honestly, talking about feelings would most likely make him run screaming the other way.”

    “Then show him.”

    “I could score him some hands and feet from Molly, I suppose.” Not that it would help in the long run.

 The cabbie snorted. “Not gifts. No, you gotta give him patience, trust, time. Prove yer in it for the long run.”

Would Sherlock respond to those things? Could John actually earn Sherlock’s love through perseverance? It was worth a shot at least. God knew Sherlock was worth the try. John imagined it, life in 221B if he could have his cake and eat it too, so to speak.  With a smile he said to the cabbie, “You’re really good at this, you know?”

    “My Da was a bartender.” He smiled. “Sorta runs in the family.”

    “I suppose I’ve started doing those things already. I’ve put up with more of his antics than anything else I’ve been through. And I went to bloody war.”

    “Thanks for that, by the way.”

    “Of course.”

 They pulled up to the train station and the cabbie stopped. “Well, good luck to ya, mate. Hope everythin’ works out. Maybe leave a little note in yer blog or somethin’ so I know how it turned out.”

    “Course.” He grabbed his bag and shifted out of the seat. When he handed over the fair, he looked at the cabbie. “Seriously, thank you.”

The cabbie nodded. “Pleased to be able to help.”

John turned with a single nod and pulled his bag along with him towards the station. Revelations about his feelings aside, he still had a case to finish and a flatmate to find.  He tried his mobile but it was dead. He’d have to find Sherlock the old fashion way. Their return tickets were open ended, so that was good, he just had to find the nearest train leaving for London and hope Sherlock was on it. The station was full to bursting, it took nearly twenty minutes of bumping through the crowd to make it to the right platform. He reminded himself of his appreciation for Sherlock, his ease in which he moved and people moved out of his way. John certainly didn’t command that kind of respect outside of his uniform. He looked but didn’t find Sherlock’s curly head above the crowd. A sinking feeling enveloped him. It certainly wasn’t the first time Sherlock had left John to his own devices, but this wasn’t a normal situation, not with their uncertain future looming. His stomach roiled and his palms sweated. He had to adjust his grip on his bag several times before he gave up and walked towards the loo with the intent to give his hands a good scrub. He stopped dead in his tracks in the doorway. A long coated figure was slumped over the sink, wet, black curls fallen over pale skin, fingers gripped at the marble basin. John felt kicked in the stomach at the sight. Sherlock looked wrecked, utterly defeated and hopeless. John accidently dropped his suitcase and the sudden clatter caused Sherlock to look up.

  Their eyes met and held, and for a brief second before Sherlock reacted, he saw the hope there. It was short lived. He lifted to his full height, pulled his wet hair back from his face and sniffed haughtily.

    “The train will be here in ten.” With that he walked past John, not another word between them. John certainly didn’t know what to say.  And damned if he didn’t have a word to speak for the rest of the train ride home. They boarded, sat and rode in complete silence the entirety of the trip. Every mile closer to home felt like another nail in John’s coffin. How had he made such an utter cock up of the whole situation? He wasn’t a religious man, generally, but he sent a thousand prayers out to every deity he could think of that an answer would come. A solution. Anything but this silence, this horrifying stasis. Sherlock stared out of the windows at the passing countryside, but John didn’t even think he was in his Mind Palace. He looked exactly how any normal bloke would look who was heartbroken, dejected and lost. John gripped the leather seat under him until his fingers were numb and indented with the seams. He knew Sherlock well enough to know that if he had wanted to hide his feelings, he would have. No, this was John’s punishment, Sherlock’s passive aggressive way of saying ‘Look what you’ve done.’ Didn’t make it any less real, but it sure as hell was a dick move. They arrived back in London in time for morning tea but John couldn’t have stomached it if he had a gun to his head. It was strange, these moments of self reflection, when you were so inside your own head that you were surprised to see humanity going about its business as usual. John wanted to shout at the kid on the bike who rode by, at the elderly woman buying a paper, at the couple who kissed good bye, as he and Sherlock exited the train. Didn’t they know, didn’t they understand how utterly fucked John’s life was? How dare they act so calm when John was a hairs breath from exploding? The cab ride home was an experiment in restraint. They both seemed to vibrate in tightly wound nerves. The London cab driver wisely kept his opinion to himself. Sherlock threw a bill at him as they exited and John thanked the universe that Mrs. Hudson had bridge on Saturday’s at Mrs. Turner’s. They’d drink enough wine to keep entertained for hours. It was probably fate because John felt a fantastic row coming on. Sherlock leaped, two at a time, up the stairs and John wasn’t far behind. When Sherlock flung the door to the flat open John waited for him to keep walking through but he didn’t. That was fine with him, he’d have it out in the hall.

    “We can deal with this now, or we can deal with it later but I’d rather now.”

    “John…”

    “No, I’m serious. I know you don’t like dealing with ‘feelings’ but we can’t just shove this under the…”

    “John,” he interrupted again.

    “The sex, yes, okay, we’ll deal with that later. But the case. I know you blame me.”

    “John!”

    “For crying out loud! What!”

Sherlock moved aside and John snapped his mouth shut.

    “By all means,” Constable Oxley waved his Heckler and Koch USP45 at them, “keep going. What about the sex?” He sneered. John walked into the flat and looked over to the fireplace to see another man, similar in appearance, an almost identical sneer on his pinched face, but where Oxley was slim his counterpart was as meaty as a bouncer. It was hard to picture this man pushing a trolley on an airplane but this must be the serial killer. Perhaps he was a pilot? No, John thought, looking him over again. A few synapses burnt in this one.   

    “Your…brother?” Sherlock questioned.

    “Cousin but it’s a common mistake.”

    “It’s always something,” Sherlock muttered. “So. Let’s get down to it.”

    “So eager? I’m surprised.”

    “This isn’t my first time being threatened by imbeciles.”

    “Oh, please Freddy, let me just…”

    “Shut up!” Oxley snapped at his cousin.

Sherlock snorted with a look at John. “Freddy.” John grinned.

    “You’re one to laugh, _Sherlock_. Get in here.” He motioned with his gun, waved them further into the room. John didn’t know about Sherlock but he felt pretty good, all things considered, about this home invasion. Not only did they have home team advantage but clearly if Constable Oxley had come along with his serial killing cousin, it was obvious that his cover was blown in Cardiff. That meant the police couldn’t be far behind. If they could get the two morons talking long enough, help was possibly on the way. If not, well, there were seventeen different objects John or Sherlock could use as weapons in this room alone.

    “Oxley, I have to admit, you surprised me. That’s quite a feat. I really thought it would be Phelps who was the traitor.”

Oxley flinched at the word traitor. Telling, that. He also glared at his cousin. Possible weakness. Sherlock glanced at John to see if he had noted it. He nodded slightly.

    “I’ve been cleaning up Darryl’s messes since we were kids. It’s a habit.”

    “I never asked you to help me, Freddy.”

Oxley glared at Darryl. “I swear if you don’t shut your trap…”

    “Yes, moving on, Gentlemen,” Sherlock said and moved minutely away from John, thus further toward Darryl, attempting to put himself between them. Which meant he was leaving Oxley and his gun up to John, the prat. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

    “Simple really. Good old fashion revenge.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

    “Darryl panicked last night when Yates showed up at the airport. He came to my place,” another glare, “looking for a hideout. It was only a matter of time before research proved the idiot my relative. This was bound to happen sooner or later.”

    “Yes. But that doesn’t explain why you’re currently pointing a gun at my head.”

    “I’d rather it were later,” he explained sarcastically. “You showed up, poking around at things no one else had looked at. Why do you think I made sure Phelps ended up with Darryl’s fuck up? I knew he wouldn’t look too deeply at it. It was almost a done deal.”

   “I would have gotten away with it if it weren’t for…”

    “Darryl,” Oxley growled, “finish that sentence and I’ll put you down myself.”

Darryl pouted/scowled and John couldn’t stop smiling. Sherlock didn’t get it, poor sod. What must his childhood have been like?

    “I’ll explain later,” he promised him.

    “No, you won’t. This ends here and now. Neither one of you will be detecting anything ever again.”

John held his hand up. “I’m not a detective, I’m a doctor.”

    “Shut up!” Oxley snapped.

    “Just saying.”

Sherlock cleared his throat.“Before we commence with the execution, would Darryl like to take this opportunity for a villainous explanation of his crimes?”                                                                                                                                                                  

Darryl looked pleadingly at Oxley.

    “Not a fucking chance,” he told his cousin, who scowled even harder, if it were possible. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, Mr. Holmes. It won’t work. Cardiff might have noticed my absence by now but they won’t put two and two together in enough time to save you.”

Sherlock shrugged at this. John assumed Sherlock would take this time to explain himself to the room why and how Darryl had done what he had done, as was his usual preference, but he didn't. “So be it. John?” He gave John approximately a half a second of prep time before all hell broke loose. Sherlock kicked the coffee table at Oxley and then rushed at Darryl. John didn’t have any time to waste, Oxley had recovered quickly from the shock of having the table flung at him. John charged at him full speed and they both went flying into the wall. He was lucky they hadn’t gone out the window, honestly. It was close. He heard a grunt from Sherlock across the room but he didn’t have time to check on his progress. Oxley was doing his damndest to point the barrel of his gun at John’s face. He used his stature against Oxley by jamming his shoulder further into the man’s diaphragm. The Constable tried an old trick, looking behind John at Sherlock and Darryl on the floor.

    “Nice try, mate,” John said. He wrenched Oxley’s arm wide and slammed his hand against the wall repeatedly without result. Several things happened simultaneously in that moment or nearly so. Sherlock let out a breathless, “John,” from the floor, which caused John to turn for a split second. Darryl was on top of Sherlock, hands wrapped around his pale throat, causing Sherlock to turn an alarming shade of maroon. Oxley took the opportunity to bring his arm back down and he made it as far as John’s shoulder before his progress was halted. It didn’t stop him from getting a shot off though. A bullet ripped through John for the second time in his life. The echoing sound caused Darryl to look up, which gave Sherlock the opportunity to reach under John’s chair for what turned out to be the skull that normally sat on the mantel above the fire place. He brought it down on Darryl’s head, smashing bone against bone, and knocked Darryl unconscious. John had a moment to feel relief as Darryl’s eyes rolled in his head and he slumped over. The maneuver gave John an idea and he brought his own head down, smashed it into Oxley’s nose. They both went down together in a tangle of limbs. Sherlock crawled over to them, threw Oxley’s gun away, before reaching into his chair for an extra pair of handcuffs. John knew he was in shock, quite delirious in fact, when all he could do upon seeing this was laugh. Sherlock cuffed Oxley and then drew his phone from the man’s jacket. John heard his frantic call to the emergency services and then he was being stripped, Sherlock frantically searched his wound.

    “I’ll have a matching set now,” John giggled as Sherlock pressed his bunched up shirt against the hole.

Sherlock sat back on his haunches with a sigh and a strained smile. “You’re in shock,” he croaked.

    “A bit, yeah. Thankfully. I remember what being shot feels like. Hope the ambulance gets here quickly. I could use some morphine.”

    “Don’t ever do that again, John Watson,” Sherlock demanded with a sinister glare, green eyes turned to grey.

    “Do what? Get shot? I didn’t plan on it. Maybe next time don't leave me with the psychopath welding a gun.”

    "It was all calculated. You have more experience with firearms and I'm better at hand to hand combat."

    "Is that so?" He smiled and reached up with his good arm and lightly brushed the rapidly darkening bruises on Sherlock’s throat. He pulled John’s hand away but didn’t let go. Not until the paramedics demanded Sherlock let go so they could get John down the stairs. Even so they had a hell of a time. John grinned like a mad man the whole way, part pain meds, part certainty that he and Sherlock were going to be alright. Nothing like a near miss with death to put some things in perspective. And, lo and behold, the case was solved. Just as John was being lifted into the ambulance, he saw Sherlock convince Lestrade that John was going to be alright and to see to the boys upstairs. He then gracefully leapt into the ambulance, settled next to John, he took his hand again and threaded their fingers together. John’s last thought, or perhaps he spoke out loud (he wasn’t sure, the meds were really good) before he passed out was, “Gotta tell the Welsh cabbie it’s all fine.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus concludes the case and our boys row about the sex. They never could stay mad at each other, could they? Also, I like to think Sherlock found Billy the Skull under John's chair because Mrs. Hudson gave another lackluster attempt at hiding him. For anyone concerned, Billy is fine. He survived the smashing with a mild concussion and was rewarded with several hours of crap telly while Sherlock and John spent John's recovery in bed. ;) Stick around. I've added John's results of his experiment as an epilogue.


	4. Epilogue: Emotional responses effect on Dominicas Moingna by Dr. John H. Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has prepared his findings on the experiment and gone out of his way to present them. Sherlock enjoys the presentation very much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a cute conclusion to the story. John does so love to get Sherlock riled up.

    “Is all this really necessary?” Sherlock asked, put out.

    “Yes, dammit. Sit down.” He maneuvered Sherlock on the couch before pulling his old glasses case from his pocket. The frames felt familiar on his nose, despite having been in a box the last fifteen years, and he pushed them up the bridge until they felt snug.  He grinned like an idiot at the look on Sherlock’s face. Part bafflement, part obvious arousal.  His professionally prepared report came next and he cleared his throat before starting his presentation.

     “Emotional responses effect on _Dominicas Moingna_ by Dr. John H. Watson.”

Sherlock squirmed in his seat, his feet jumped on the floor. John thought he should skip the intro and just get to the good parts. Sherlock might not last much longer and he hadn’t even really started yet.  

    “A week long study, conducted without consent on one Sherlock Holmes, was concluded with quite an interesting array of information on the affect of outside stimuli on ocular chromatics. It was hypothesized by Dr. Watson that not only could apparel affect the change but emotional stimuli as well. Several experiments were conducted to achieve maximum working data. Examples,” he pointed to one of his graphs that included many of his attempts to illicit a response from Sherlock, “as you’ll note, these were thought out questions and statements, all created with maximum emotional response in mind.”

    “So when you asked if I thought kittens were a viable option for fur coats…?”

    “Shh, I’m not finished.” He cleared his throat again. “If you’ll turn your attention to the opposite graph,” pointer snapped to the cardboard printout to his left, “you’ll see where I’ve listed every noted color variation and its predicted emotional response.”

Sherlock scooted forward and squinted at the board. John sighed. The copy place down the road hadn’t exactly printed to his specifications. “I’ll read it to you.” He picked it up and looked it over. “All noted colors of the subject’s ocular responses were variations on blue, green and grey with subtle touches of gold or combinations on all these, grey being the most prevalent of all.” At this John looked up at Sherlock with a smile. He received a look that clearly said, ‘Well?’

    “Correlations with subject’s surroundings and apparel were ruled out of the resulting findings but were noted to have small effects on subject’s chromatic response, usually a lightening or darkening of said chromatics. Emotions and correlating chromatics are listed below with length of time recorded.

Variations of blue: Ice blue, grey blue, Caribbean blue, cornflower blue. Emotional correlations: frustration, calm, _lying_ ,” glare, “and studious thought. Variations of green: light green, light green with gold, medium varying shades of green. Emotional correlations: anxiety, tension, varying levels of anger. Extreme variations on these usually represent either the extreme variations of subject’s moods, or trips into what the subject refers to his Mind Palace.” Another glance at Sherlock for courage as he got to the best part. At least he thought it was the best part. “Further study was needed on the most prevalent chromatic spectrum, as its source emotional correlation was so vague it warranted closer inspection. Variations on grey: muted grey, light grey with blue, silver. Emotional correlations: John, John, and John.” A smile for Sherlock was given. He looked so very perplexed. “That’s why it seemed so vague. I saw those the most.”

    “I don’t understand,” he admitted.

    “I get my own ocular chromatic scheme,” he explained.

    “Really?” He got up to look in the mirror. Sure enough. Light grey.

    “Told you.” Smug smile. “So?”

    “Yes?”

    “Do I get an apology?”

    “For what?”

John rolled his eyes. “Forget it.”

Sherlock walked over slowly with a predatory smile that caused John’s mouth to water. He reached out and took the report from John’s hand, threw it to the floor.

    “You, Dr. John _Hamish_ Watson, have done an excellent job with this scientific study. Compelling work indeed.” He looked John up and down, from his combed over hair to black framed glasses to his red cardigan to his sensible brown shoes.

    “Why do I get the feeling you’re not exactly complimenting the science report?”

Evil smile. “I find your attempt at scientific study very exciting.”

    “Because of the integrity of the work?”

    “Mmm,” he hummed in agreement.

    “I bet you were something in school,” John commented as Sherlock curved a finger around John’s ear, caressing his glasses.

    “I had excellent teachers.”

    “I bet,” he said a bit breathless.

    “And I _had_ excellent teachers,” he said with a tone and a tilt of his head, as if John wouldn’t get the innuendo. 

    “Yep. That explains a lot.”

    “Where did you get these?” He asked, referring to the glasses.

    “Had them since before the Army. Got Lasik after I joined up,” he explained. He reached up to take them off, they were starting to give him a headache, but Sherlock stopped him with a hand to his wrist.

    “No. Leave them on.”

John put his hand back down. What the hell. What was a little headache compared to the flush that covered Sherlock’s sharp cheekbones? He’d suffered much worse for the man. And he would again in a heartbeat. Because what John hadn’t included in his report was that grey in Sherlock’s eyes didn’t just say ‘John’. It said ‘Love’.  He grinned at his secret knowledge as Sherlock pulled him into the bedroom. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked this little beast. I know most everyone has been writing Season 3 fixes and Meta's but I just couldn't bare to touch it, with the exception of the tiny Molly fic I did. Too many feels, needed something to stand alone. I like to think after they set some ground rules, their relationship blossomed naturally. Rules like, "Four hours of cuddling are permitted on Tuesdays only and not at all if there's a case on," were forgotten immediately after the first week. Sherlock didn't know he was a cuddler too. It's my head canon and I'll do what I like with it. "Sherlock is a girl's name," indeed! Pah! Comments welcome! Find me on Tumblr at [Misa-nthropy.tumblr.com](http://misa-nthropy.tumblr.com/)


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